


Abducted

by ElenaCee



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aftermath, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenaCee/pseuds/ElenaCee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of hurt/comfort clichés. Holmes is abducted, rescued, and Watson has to deal with the fallout. Originally posted in 2009 on ff.net and LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I have often had occasion to relate the many almost inhuman qualities by which my friend Sherlock Holmes is distinguished. Being a mere mortal in comparison to him, I fear that, especially during the early days of our intimacy, I tended to raise him upon a wholly unrealistic pedestal, that of the cold calculating machine and heartless reasoner. He himself was fond of claiming that human sentiment and any weaknesses resulting thereof were alien to him, and certainly his conduct in those early days was such that I found I believed that assertion without question, despite the fact that I, being the only person he allowed into his fiercely guarded privacy, should definitely have known better within the first few days of sharing rooms with him.

But I was young and easily deceived back then - "even more easily than now, you mean to say, Watson" I can hear my dear friend remark scathingly -, so it actually took me some years before I realized my fallacy. Holmes himself, at one unnoticed point, had ceased to regard me as a mere fellow lodger and occasional business associate. I still remember the warmth and pride that filled me when he first introduced me as "my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson". Despite his habitual sarcasm, I could tell that it certainly was more than a mere phrase for him. But I believe that this was as far as his awareness went back then. He thought me a friend, his only friend, even, but nothing more than that, for I know that his analytical nature rarely extended to an examination of his own feelings.

That in itself may be considered strange but not wholly unusual in light of Holmes' other eccentricities. Occasional attacks of philosophy aside, he normally prefers not to dwell on things that have no bearing upon a case, especially if they constitute what he sometimes calls the "intangibles". What is amazing, however, is the fact that I, who prides himself on being in touch with his inner man, managed to completely misjudge the quality of my feelings for him, thinking them to be merely a mixture of admiration and friendship.

And so, for more than a year of sharing rooms, we remained content to call each other friend, both of us in blissful ignorance of our true feelings, until a sequence of events forced them to our attention in the most painful way.

During the spring of 1883, Holmes accepted a completely unremarkable case, one entirely lacking in those singular and outré features that he usually demands from his work. He made no secret of the fact that he only agreed to become involved out of the sheer desperation arising from a dearth of mysteries with which to engage his formidable intellect. I, however, was glad, for even this simple affair was useful to detract my friend from his black moods and subsequent descent into artificial stimulation, and I gladly came along when he asked me to in that masterful way he has.

The facts are indeed commonplace, and the case itself hardly taxed my friend's remarkable talents, so I need not recount it here. It is unimportant anyway for these personal scribblings that no one, hopefully, will ever read. A simple burglary of the household of a country squire on whose property a literal treasure chest had been discovered brought us first onto that gentleman's lands and finally, following a trail of clues that was as obvious as the letters printed upon a newspaper to my extraordinary friend, into the shrubbery surrounding a clearing where we subsequently found ourselves, a few Scotland Yard officials hidden in the perimeter as backup.

The three men we had been pursuing were huddled around the stolen chest while one of them fiddled with the lock, Holmes and I lying in wait observing them. We needed them to open the chest in order to complete the evidence against them, but they were taking their blessed time with it.

I gritted my teeth, trying to refrain from shifting my cramped position. The wait had been interminable, and if the chap did not get a move on soon, I should dearly love to end this vigil by breaking cover and springing upon him just bring this infernal inaction to an end.

Next to me, Holmes was as motionless as a lurking leopard, lean muscles vibrating with contained energy, grey eyes fixed on his prey, ready to pounce. He noticed my increasing restlessness, for suddenly I could feel his thin hand upon my shoulder. "Steady, Watson," he whispered, holding the contact for a moment longer without interrupting his single-minded observation.

I remember being surprised at the sense of well-being his touch afforded me, quite out of proportion with the situation. But, caught up in the moment as I was, I did not attach any importance to it.

Just then, on the clearing fifteen yards away from us, there was a click, and the burglars raised the lid off the chest.

"Now, Watson!"

With that shout, Holmes sprang up and out of the undergrowth that had concealed us and ran towards the clearing, I close at his heels, trusty revolver in my hand, my limbs protesting their long-enforced stillness and the sudden burst of action now required of them. My friend, however, either felt no such difficulty or paid it no heed as he flew forward, swift as a deer in spite of the numbing cold of our vigil, calling upon one of those amazing feats of physical effort that I have witnessed time and again.

The three men looked up from the chest they had just opened, startled and shocked by our sudden appearance, their breath fogging in the lamplight. They reacted regrettably swiftly, however, gaining their feet and scattering into the shadows cast by the trees all around us, leaving their bounty behind in their flight.

"Quickly, Watson!" cried Holmes, veering off to the left side, hot on the heels of one of them. "Don't let them escape!"

He did not need to wave me towards the man disappearing to our right. We had had ample time to identify the men and to plan our attack. The man Holmes was pursuing was easily recognizable as Brendan Tate, master burglar and head of the small gang, while I had taken it upon myself to chase his lieutenant, one Benjamin Jones. They were easily the most dangerous men of the trio, and Holmes had felt that the least important gang member might as well be left to Inspector Lestrade's net of officials.

It was quite dark away from the single oil lamp the three burglars had used, but Holmes and I, not having been exposed to the light from such close quarters, had the advantage over the men in this. Thus, I could see my quarry fairly well even while he stumbled around blindly, and I managed to overwhelm him in short order with a rugby tackle and a well-aimed blow with the butt-end of my service revolver.

The reports of two shots in quick succession to my left told me that Holmes was not faring quite so well. Making certain that my man was safely unconscious, I got my bearing and started towards the place from whence I had heard the shots, calling out to my friend and feeling an icy tendril of fear grip my heart when he did not respond.

My concern for Holmes was causing me to be less cautious than the situation, obviously, warranted, for suddenly there was a sharp pain at the back of my head and a flash in front of my eyes, and then I knew no more.

* * *

When I came back to myself, someone was shaking me and patting my cheek. Recollection was swift, and I quite startled the unfamiliar man tending to me by sitting up abruptly.

My first thought was with my friend. "Holmes!" I called out, peering around fruitlessly. Apparently, I was still in the clearing, it was still dark, but contrary to before, the area was now crawling with policemen and Scotland Yarders armed with torches and lanterns. I was dismayed, however, to find myself unable to spot my friend among them.

At the sound of my voice, Inspector Lestrade detached himself from a small group of officials and approached me just as I, over the protests of the police doctor - for that was what he must be - gained my feet.

"Ah, Doctor Watson," Lestrade greeted me. "Good to see you back among us. That must have been quite a -"

"Where is Holmes?" I rudely interrupted him, too worried for politeness.

Rather than chide me for my bad manners, the little official looked quite chagrined. "I was hoping you might be able to tell us that," he admitted. "When we arrived, all we found was you, lying unconscious among the shrubbery, and neither hide nor hair of Mr. Holmes or the scoundrels. There are signs of a struggle and some traces of blood over yonder, but no track we can follow in this blasted darkness." He peered at me. "You have been unconscious for a deucedly long time, Doctor. Are you all right?"

"Yes, quite," I dismissed his concern with a wave of my hand. "Quite all right." In truth, I was feeling somewhat queasy, but that might as easily be attributed to my concern for Holmes. "What about the man I subdued?"

"Gone." Lestrade grimaced ruefully. "Near as we can reconstruct, the third man was able to evade our ambush, joined Tate, and together they overpowered Mr. Holmes and took him and your man with them. I have my men searching the immediate area, but the scoundrels have about an hour's head start. They could be as far as Reading by now."

I gritted my teeth, half from the pain in my head and half from frustration. "So much for setting them a trap," I could not help remarking. "We are close to a dozen men against three, and not only do the criminals escape, they also manage to take a hostage. Brilliant work, Inspector!"

Lestrade had the decency to look chagrined, muttering something about less than ideal conditions while I continued to seethe impotently.

And those, in spite of all my silent and not so silent ravings during the interminable hours that followed, were the facts. Lestrade's men found nothing to set them upon the right track, even though they extended their activities to all the train stations in the area. Tate and his men seemed to have dropped off the face of the Earth, and Sherlock Holmes along with them.

Morning came, but even with the returning daylight there was no new trace to be found, and when afternoon came round, I was finally forced to admit that nothing more could be done here. I returned to London in the most despondent of spirits and the certainty that I had failed Holmes. Even though I knew the sentiment was utter nonsense, I nevertheless felt I should never have let myself be knocked unconscious, and that what had happened was somehow my fault, for I had not been on hand to help him when he needed me. After all, that, if nothing else, had always been my function when I accompanied him in his investigations – provide his brilliant mind with a sounding board, and be his shield against danger. Thus did my conscience plague me with remonstrance while my imagination painted one horrific scenario after another about what might have even now be happening to my dear friend.

* * *

The most horrible week of my life passed. I had no news, not even a ransom demand. At first, I took a leaf out of my friend's book and tried to deduce his whereabouts - an endeavour doomed to failure from the start, for not only was I nowhere close to Holmes' level as far as my deductive abilities were concerned, I also had nothing to work with, and even Holmes himself would have been unable, nay unwilling, to theorize without data. That, however, did not keep me from suspecting that I was once again seeing and not observing, that I was holding some vital clue in my hands without realizing it, and that, if Holmes were here, he would have been able to find himself during the very night of his disappearance while we still bumbled along in the dark.

I have never considered myself a particularly dense man, nor an unobservant one. Yet spending nearly two years of close association with the world's foremost consulting detective, while rewarding in many regards, do tend to undermine one's self-esteem. In my admiration for Sherlock Holmes, I had learned to doubt myself, be it in those instances when I thought I could see nothing, or, even more keenly, when I thought I knew the solution, only to be proved wrong. And how often had I followed along blindly in my friend's wake, having seen what he had seen yet no wiser for all I had witnessed, while he observed so much more and deduced the rest, rarely veering off the path to the solution, and erring more rarely still! So how could I fail to berate myself now for my current blindness, at the one time that Holmes needed me to use his methods, and use them successfully?

Such were my thoughts, and so, rather than stay in our rooms and brood or make half-hearted house visits with my patients, I instead made a daily nuisance of myself at Scotland Yard. Considering the fact that I was able to gain admittance with Lestrade on each occasion, I might be tempted flatter myself with the assumption that my association with the great detective had lent my humble self the regard of someone with a right to know. But privately, I suspect that it was my despair and worry for my friend that I made no attempt to conceal, coupled with a persistence I was quite unable to dampen, that moved Lestrade and his men to being a little more forthcoming with their information than would, perhaps, otherwise have been the case.

Be that as it may, on the eighth day after Holmes' disappearance, Scotland Yard finally found a trace. Apparently, a man matching Jones' description had been spotted at a grocer's in a village called Little Ridling, some ten miles distant from the scene of our disastrous nightly observation. Needless to say that I was on the very next train, medical bag in hand, accompanied by Lestrade and three of his men, a telegram to the local police station preceding us.

We spent the journey in near complete silence. There was nothing to say - each and every theory had been hashed out to the fullest during the preceding week, and speculation tended to be too bleak to be voiced by this point. I, myself, had not given up hope, nor should I until I beheld my friend's lifeless body, but I suspected that the officials did not share my stubborn optimism. The most pressing question was this: if Holmes was being held captive, what use was he for the blackguards? He was a dangerous man to try to keep hold of, and an unneeded complication for anyone trying to lie low. There had been none of the usual communications demanding money for his safe return, which would have been the only reason we could divine for keeping him alive at all. Fortunately, there had been no indication that Holmes was dead either, although the officials no doubt thought that this might be due to the fact that his body simply had not yet been discovered.

Upon our arrival in the hamlet, Lestrade proceeded to question the grocer and several other shopkeepers, going on the assumption that the burglars had probably holed up somewhere in the vicinity and needed supplies. It was evening when we managed to ascertain that they even had secured transportation in the form of a dog-cart, and an hour later we learned that that same dog-cart had been spotted leaving Little Ridling the day before, headed west.

Unfortunately, it was growing dark rapidly, and though I was quite frantic by that point and pressed the officials to keep going, we were obliged to abandon the search for that day and to seek accommodation in the village Inn.

I could not sleep. Instead, I restlessly paced the confines of my tiny room. This was the first substantial lead we had had all week. Surely, tomorrow would finally see the end of this dreadful business, and I should at the very least know what had happened to Sherlock Holmes. No, more than that - I should find him, heal him if necessary, even if I were to spend my last breath doing it.

A lot could happen in eight days; a lot more could happen in the few hours of this night. As an old campaigner, I was quite aware of that, and as a medical man to boot, I finally admitted to myself that the outlook for my friend was bleak indeed. Of course, I had told myself not even to consider the possibility until events forced me to, but what if all I could recover was Holmes' dead body? The thought was chilling, terrifying, as such thoughts can only be in the small hours of the night when the imagination runs rampant. After all those days spent clinging tenaciously to hope that was dwindling with each passing hour, I suddenly felt as if I were falling into a vortex sucking me down into the blackest despair. I simply could not face the thought of a life without Sherlock Holmes in it.

It was the first inkling I had of how important he had become to me, even if, then, I was unable to fully grasp the implications.

* * *

I was up and about with the first light, making my way once more to the grocer that had spotted the dog-cart. Imagine how thrilled I was to discover two deep parallel impressions in the dirt road, leading off to the west! I immediately suspected that those tracks would lead us right to the burglars' dog cart, and I started to follow them for a few hundred yards beyond the village boundaries down the cross-country road, finding them to be easily visible the whole time.

Impatiently, I returned to the Inn, where I found Lestrade and his men in the process of setting out.

The Scotland Yard official obviously saw it as his duty to caution me against premature hope. "We do not know that those tracks are theirs. They could belong to some farmer, or even a traveller passing through. They could lead anywhere."

"Yes, yes!" I cried. "But they might just as easily lead us to Holmes, Lestrade! Come on, there isn't another moment to lose! We have tarried long enough as it is."

Driven along by my urging and bereft of an alternative course of action, the officials fell in with my idea, and so we soon were rumbling along the road in our own open carriage. Whenever a path branched off the road, we stopped to check it for wheel tracks. There were none save those that we were following - a clear enough trace, if the only one we had.

Almost two hours later, the tracks veered off to follow a little-used footpath.

"We must go on foot," said Lestrade. "We shall need the element of surprise, and there is no telling if our carriage will be able to pass in any case."

"I'll wager the scoundrels made for that farm house over yonder," said I, pointing to a house about two or three miles distant. "The path seems to be leading there." I pulled out my field glasses. "I can see the dog-cart, Inspector!" I cried, feeling my heart-rate picking up speed. At last!

"Might be theirs," Lestrade conceded, taking the glasses from me and peering through them intently. "All right," he went on. "Here's what we shall do. We'll wait until dark -"

"We cannot!" I interrupted him hotly. "That is more than ten hours away, Inspector! Holmes might be dead by then!"

He looked at me, frowning fiercely. "I hear you, Doctor. But consider this: We move in now, and we shall more like as not be noticed before we can gain admittance, which will provoke some rash action on the blackguards' parts. And if Mr. Holmes is still alive after all this time, then he is so for a reason - he's worth more alive than dead. In this case, circumstances will not change till evening, unless we act now and force their hands. In fact, it is our and his only hope that it is so, for otherwise the rascals will surely have disposed of him by now. Another ten hours will make no difference one way or another." He saw my expression, and his own softened. "I am sorry, Doctor. But we must face the facts."

* * *

The following hours were without doubt among the worst of my entire life. I could neither force myself to calm nor immerse myself in one of the novels provided by the Inn. I took turns pacing restlessly and staring out the window, unable to stop thinking and imagining every possible outcome to Holmes' plight. Lestrade and his men steered remarkably clear of me, for I fear I was not very good company in my frantic worry for my friend. By the time darkness fell, my army training was all that stood between me becoming a nervous wreck.

All my inner turmoil, however, came to a stop when Lestrade gave the signal and we once again made our way down the country road, the prospect of action inducing in me that singular calm before battle that every soldier knows.

"All quiet, Inspector," the constable Lestrade had deployed to watch the house during the day reported. "Haven't seen anyone leave or enter. They're lyin' low all right."

We spent a tense half hour watching the house, cataloguing movement inside the lighted rooms, and ascertaining that there were still only three men inside. No sign of Holmes, but not all rooms were lighted, so I deduced - I hoped - that he was kept in one of those dark rooms. Again, my imagination provided me with the most horrid scenarios, and I kept taking stock of the contents of my bag in an effort to anticipate actual developments. Bandages of all kinds, catgut, surgical instruments, laudanum, morphine, splints, a bag of plaster, ammonia, alcohol, carbolic acid... I was ready for almost any contingency. Now all that remained was to find Holmes.

Then Lestrade sent his men to surround the house, with instructions to keep out of sight until they received his signal before turning to me. "You stay here, Doctor, until the situation is under control."

"I'm fully prepared -" I began.

"I don't doubt your readiness, but there will likely be guns involved, and you'll be of more use to Mr. Holmes without a bullet inside of you."

I nodded, too astounded by his sudden optimistic outlook to argue.

The next minutes passed in a flurry of activity. On the official's signal, the building was stormed, and the burglars were taken completely by surprise. As soon as I realized that the gunfight Lestrade had feared would not take place, I took it upon myself to follow the officials into the farmhouse. We burst open doors until we came upon one that was locked.

With enormous relief, I knew at once that this was where they had been keeping their captive, and that he must still be alive – no need to lock a door on a dead man, after all. My revolver was in my hand and the lock yielded to my bullet before I had time to think about it, and then I was inside the dark room.

"Lights!" I called, cautiously moving forward into the gloom. There was an overpowering chemical smell in the stuffy air, the exact nature of which I could not discern. Lamps were brought in momentarily, and by their light I noticed a cot in the far corner, and a motionless figure on top of it. I recognized him immediately despite the pieces of cloth covering his eyes and mouth.

"Holmes!" I cried.

There was no reaction. I was next to him in an instant.

My poor friend was a sorry sight indeed. He lay on his back, clad in his shirt and trousers, and I experienced a moment of blinding relief upon seeing him clothed – one heretofore unacknowledged fear groundless at least. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, exposing his sinewy arms; his thin hands and narrow feet were stretched out and tied to the bedposts. When he did not respond to my calling his name, I removed the dirty pieces of cloth that blinded him and kept him from crying out. They stuck to the skin of mouth and eyelids, necessitating me to be very gentle. But despite my efforts, they still left his lips raw and bleeding when they were finally removed. I felt myself growing cold with the realization that he must have been kept like that for days, gagged and blindfolded, which at the very least meant dehydration, possibly starvation.

But most worrying of all was his lack of reaction even when I removed the bonds from his abraded wrists and ankles. My heart filled with dread as I slowly moved his arms into a more comfortable position and touched his slack face to rouse him. He simply continued to lie limp except for a slight tremor in his newly freed hands. That was when the meaning of the strange smell in the room struck me, and indeed I found a number of fresh and half-healed puncture wounds on both his exposed forearms. Tied, blindfolded, gagged and drugged! These blackguards had been well aware of how formidable their captive was, and they had taken no chances.

A quick examination revealed that he had lost weight he could ill afford to lose, for my questing hands could feel his every bone through his dirty clothes, and there was a pinched look about his pale skin that told me he was indeed severely dehydrated. I found discolourations all over his torso and an untreated bullet wound on his left thigh that had become infected. His forehead was warm with fever; his pulse was steady if faint and too fast, but he did not appear to be in any immediate danger as far as I could tell - not counting, of course, the as yet unknown effects of the drug. Some of those effects I could discern from the low muscle tone and lack of bowel movement; I was clearly dealing with some powerful muscle relaxant.

Not knowing if he could hear me, I kept up a steady litany of soothing words while I worked, and I had just made my preliminary diagnosis when his eyes slowly opened. My words stuck in my throat when I saw his blank look. He stared at nothing for the longest time, his pupils impossibly dilated. Finally, his gaze slowly tracked me, and then he looked at me without recognition, his empty expression dissolving into one of utter confusion that was quite painful to see.

"My dear fellow," I whispered, fear and cold rage warring in my breast. If Tate or one of his accomplices had been in the vicinity now, I fear it would not have gone well with them.

Holmes continued to merely look at me, grey irises almost obliterated by his blown pupils. Clearly, whatever drug had been used on him had taken away his great perception and superior mental acuity to the point where I had to wonder how much he could see of his surroundings, let alone understand. Then his mouth opened, and his cracked lips moved slightly. I divined more than saw them soundlessly form a word: my name.

"Yes," I said softly, smiling. "I'm here. It's over. The police have them. You're safe." It seemed like such a trivial thing to say, and I do not think I had ever stated the obvious to him quite like that before. However, at that moment I was not certain if he could even hear me, and I confess that my words were more for mine than for his benefit.

He blinked as if fighting to see me clearly. He must have recognized my voice after all; his long fingers twitched, and I knew then that his paralysis was indeed almost total. So I reached out when he could not and took his thin hand in both of mine, trying to conquer with my touch the helplessness I was certain he must feel. His eyes with their unnaturally large pupils remained fixed upon me, and I was dismayed to see them fill with moisture.

His vulnerability sparked something deep and hungry within me, and suddenly, holding his hand was not enough. I was seized with the most intense desire to fold my arms about my friend's ravaged frame, to hold him close to me and warm him and know with all my senses that he was alive. On a visceral level I knew that in those minutes he, too, needed me in a way he probably never had needed anyone before.

So I carefully lifted his head and upper body, just enough for me to manoeuvre my arm under and around his shoulders, and I cradled him to me until I could feel his breath against my neck and he mine against his, holding him and holding him until I felt we had both calmed as much as the situation would allow. And, at that time, it truly was nothing more than a keen desire to take away his suffering that prompted my action.

Again and again I have since gone back in my mind to that endless bittersweet moment, my friend safe in my arms after more than a week of unknown ordeal for Holmes and hair-tearing worry for myself, and to the marvellous healing properties of touch. Poetic as it sounds, it was as if I could feel our souls reaching out to one another through our contact, and I swear that those minutes spent close together did more to salve my poor friend's bruised spirit than all my medical skill could have done.

Only when I was certain that we had both had our fill, I gently laid Holmes back down, called for hot water and set about cleaning and examining my friend's wound.

It was an ugly gash, made uglier still by its having been left untreated. To all appearances, the bullet was still inside. Holmes continued to lie unmoving, but I could tell from the changing of his breathing that the drug did not deaden his perception of pain. It would have to wear off before I could even think of administering laudanum, and, not wishing to cause him more pain, I abandoned the wound for now and gently cleaned and washed the rest of him, my mind numb with shock at the sight of his bruised, emaciated body. Then I dressed him in a set of spare clothing some inner instinct had bid me to bring.

That done, I set about at least marginally re-hydrating my patient. It was a slow and delicate process. The confounded drug had paralysed all his voluntary muscles, including those needed for swallowing, so I had to feed him tiny sips one by one and work his throat for him, knowing that he would be unable even to cough if the water went down the wrong way. I held him propped up against my body during the whole proceeding, trying to inure myself to the sympathetic pain his helplessness induced in me and to keep functioning. What an indignity to suffer for any man, but even more so for one as proud as Sherlock Holmes!

At one point, Lestrade stuck his head in, but a glare from me made him withdraw with a muttered apology.

I wanted nothing more than to move Holmes as far away from here as possible this very instant, but reason intervened and convinced me to wait until the drug had lost effect so I could at least treat his bullet wound without causing him pain. Besides, I knew my friend well enough to guess that he would leave here on his own two feet rather than being carried.

I needed to find out what the blackguards had used upon their captive. There might be discarded bottles in the main room that would give me an indication, and an idea how long it would take for whatever it was to wear off. "I'll be back shortly, Holmes," I said clearly and slowly, still not knowing how much he could perceive of his surroundings. "You're safe. They won't be back. I'll leave the door open. You'll be able to hear me all the while."

I watched his face as I said this, hoping for a sardonic twist of his thin, raw lips telling me that I was being overly solicitous, but instead, his vacant gaze continued to rest upon me without expression, and there was not the slightest twitch to his slack features.

I was barely out the door when his frightened gasp called me back.

The following hours were painful in the extreme. My poor friend, in his drug-induced stupor, had managed to somehow latch upon the single fact that I was with him, and my presence became akin to a beacon of hope in what must have been an otherwise impenetrable mental fog. Moving out of his sight even for a short time seemed to cause him indescribable anguish. I felt myself quite incapable of heaping more suffering upon him, so I stayed where he could see me, comforted him with my touch whenever he required it, and waited for the cursed drug to lose effect. From the number of puncture marks on Holmes' sinewy arms, one for each day of captivity, I knew that this would take at least 24 hours.

I felt keenly for him, and I hoped most fervently that he might not be aware of his condition. Lestrade, with unaccustomed empathy, had ordered Holmes' room off-limits for everybody except for him and myself, so that my friend might at least be spared the indignity of having the constables staring at him, whether or not he knew about it.

Meanwhile, the little official had found not only the phials I had suspected were there - a wicked mixture of chloral, alcohol and laudanum, something that induced both the mental confusion and the effective paralysis -, but also some most interesting correspondence.

"They've contacted all the renowned criminals in England and Europe with an offer to auction him off to the highest bidder!" Lestrade hissed angrily. "There's even been some bids already!"

I anxiously watched Holmes' face, but he was still gazing at me with that unnervingly vacant glance, giving no indication he was even aware of the inspector's presence.

"That's monstrous," I said evenly, striving to keep all anger out of my voice. "But they've proven their low regard for his person with every despicable act they've committed. What's a little traffic in human beings to round it off?"

Lestrade shook his head savagely. "Monstrous," he muttered.

We sat in angry silence, each contemplating what would have happened if we had not found Holmes in time. He no doubt would have been executed by whoever 'purchased' him, and there was no telling the indignities he would have had to suffer until then.

"I should like to leave here as soon as possible," I finally stated more to myself than to Lestrade. "Get Holmes to safety. I'm sure he'll have a faster recovery in Baker Street than anywhere else."

Lestrade looked at Holmes with a peculiar expression in his dark eyes. "Mighty strange to see him like this, Doctor," he finally muttered. "I'm with you on getting him away from here. You can take the dog-cart right now. I shall wire for any assistance you might need."

There was an unaccustomed undertone to the little official's voice that made me search his face. I had often had reason to suspect that, beneath the gruff, almost resentful exterior, Lestrade harboured some small degree of affection for my friend, and I found myself justified now.

"Thank you, Inspector," I said sincerely. "I should dearly love to move him, but the drug still is in his system. My guess is that we'll have to wait at least twelve hours."

Lestrade nodded slowly, and finally rose to his feet. "Well, let me know if there's anything I can do. We owe it to him that we found this nest, and if we play our cards right, we might manage to arrest all the bidders in this particular auction."

This possibility had not occurred to me. Before I could express my congratulations on this audacious plan, however, there was a movement against my arm.

I looked down to find Holmes staring at me, and the vacancy of his gaze had given way to an expression of urgent entreaty. Needless to say, I was overjoyed at this sign of recuperation, however slight. Sensing he wanted to tell me something, I leaned down.

His white lips barely formed a word. "Time?"

I pulled out my watch. "It's five-and-twenty past nine precisely, Holmes. How are you feeling?"

He closed his eyes briefly. "Date?" His voice was barely audible, the word badly slurred.

"The nineteenth."

This information seemed to upset him. His breathing accelerated; his gaze seemed to drill a hole into my skull. Finally, he forced out, "Must… leave… now… coming…"

"Coming? Who is coming, Holmes?"

He shook his head, a slight movement only, but sufficient to convey his impatience. "Must leave now, Watson!" His voice finally caught at the last word, which served to galvanise me into action.

"Lestrade!" I called.

The little official, who had feigned indifference in the proceedings until now, raised his head questioningly.

"Holmes seems to think that we have to clear off this instant, Inspector," I said urgently, used by now to doing whatever my friend asked of me at a moment's notice. "I think he is trying to tell me that the bidders are arriving tonight."

"What!" Lestrade stared at me, looking remarkably like a startled ferret. The next instant, he was outside, giving orders. I was amused to note that he did not think to question my friend's words any more than I was. Even half-unconscious and drugged out of his mind, Holmes was exerting enough authority to get the official to follow his wishes.

"Now, Watson," Holmes repeated, feebly struggling to sit up but barely managing to raise his head off the rough blanket upon which he was lying.

"Lie still," I ordered him, carefully threading my arms underneath him and lifting him off the cot, cradling his too-warm body against me. He was a tall man, but his build was so lithe and he had lost so much weight that I could carry him easily.

"I'll get the cart," a constable called when he spotted me with my burden.

I could feel Holmes' rapid breathing against my neck, and I realised that even the short journey to the village inn would tax him to the limit, maybe even kill him if I did not take every precaution. "Fetch all the blankets you can find," I called at another constable, tightening my hold about my precious burden and slowly making my way towards the carriage.

Around me, policemen were scurrying this way and that in an effort to erase all traces of their presence here. The constable currently acting as coachman met me when I was barely ten steps away from the house, jumped off and opened the door for me. I settled myself inside the cart, Holmes held securely in my arms and the requested blankets draped around and over him. He still had so little control over his body that I did not wish to leave him lying unsecured upon the narrow bench.

By now, his breathing was fast and audible. Even this short transfer had exhausted him, and he must be in severe pain from the inflamed bullet wound, for he groaned wretchedly when the cart jerkily started to move. I held him close to me, cushioning him with my body as best as I could, but even so, the constant jarring and shaking as we rode across the rough country road was intensely agonizing for him.

"Slowly, Constable," I called, and the horse slowed in response to our coachman's signals. I was acutely aware of every pained breath in response to every small bump upon the road, to the point where I fancied I could feel Holmes' agony in my own body.

His breaths were beginning to carry helpless moans with them. One of his hands rose weakly, trembling fingers seeking my coat lapel. I dearly wanted to catch it in one of my own, but both my arms were employed in holding him in position, and I dared not let go. His two eyes were closed in his waxen face, white lips forming soundless words.

I was not certain whether he could hear me. Still I told him that it would not be long, that he would soon be able to rest, that it was over, and that I was with him.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and found mine in soul-wrenching entreaty. "Please, Watson," he whispered, barely audible. "Be real this time."

"I am here, Holmes," I said past the lump in my throat. "I'm here. I'm real. You're not dreaming."

He smiled tremulously. And then, he proceeded to drive a spike into my gut with seven small words. "Don't let them hurt me again."

In a flash, all my fears about what might have happened to him were back. Was he only speaking of his one injury, or of the cause for the discolorations? Had I overlooked something during my examination of him, something much more soul damaging than a beating?

My heart turned to lead even as I tightened my hold about his thin frame and raised his head and shoulders higher, cradling him to me. "You are safe, my dear friend, I promise. I shall let no-one hurt you again." I hope I may be forgiven for the utter sentimentality of my words, and for the murderous rage that filled me at the thought of this noble, brilliant man brought to this state.

With my cheek resting against his brow, my soul was consumed by a torrent of hate and love that almost swept me under. Hot tears dimmed my eyes; I had difficulty breathing during that moment spent clutching my dear, damaged friend to my breast.

But now was not the time to break down; we were not yet out of danger. Forcing myself back to reason and my lungs to breathing, I raised my head once more. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe I had misinterpreted his mumbled words; or he was dreaming, talking of things that he feared, that had not actually happened. These thoughts, improbable though it was, helped me to clear my mind.

After a torturous, slow journey, we finally reached Little Ridling and the inn in which I was staying. Once again, I carefully threaded my arms beneath and around Holmes and lifted him, blankets and all, out of the dog cart. The constable, bless him, assigned himself to escort duty and cleared things with the landlord while I carried my poor friend straight to my room and into my bed.

I need hardly describe the ache that seared me when I felt his thin hands grasping my coat lapels, holding tight when I made to move away. His instinctive need for me was unsettling and wonderful, and I knew intense remorse for the way my heart was gladdened at being needed by this proud man, even as I was pained and incensed by the reasons for that need.

There were things to be done; his wound needed treating, he should take more water. But all of that would require me to leave him, if only briefly. Also, I was deeply weary, and the prospect of closing my eyes, knowing Holmes was finally safe, was too alluring to resist. So I allowed myself to be dragged down next to him. Gently, I arranged his trembling limbs into a comfortable position, dragged the bedclothes over both of us, placed my arms about him, and fell into a dreamless sleep with the sound of Holmes' breaths in my ear.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of past sexual abuse ahead.

I slept dreamlessly, in that state of near-unconsciousness that exhaustion will give a man. My rest was but a brief one, however, for a sense of urgency, combined with the memory of what had happened, had followed me into my slumber, letting me know in that non-verbal way of the subconscious that, fatigued though I was, the time for a long sleep had not yet come. I soon forced myself back to wakefulness, therefore, dragging open eyelids that felt as though made of lead, to find Sherlock Holmes close to me upon the bed in a fitful sleep, his thin hands fisted into my shirt, his head resting upon my shoulder and his breath coming in fast and halting gasps.

I carefully shifted him so I could sit up, finding that his grip upon my shirt did not slacken. Gently, I pried open one of his fists, but the long fingers at once curled around mine as if they could not bear to remain empty, and his eyes opened.

"How are you feeling?" I asked in a low voice, watching his face to see if he could understand me.

He blinked slowly. "Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes, it's me." The lingering confusion in his eyes worried me keenly. "I've brought you away from that place. We're in an inn now." He continued to look at me, blinking, and I was moved to ask: "Can you hear me?"

He nodded.

This did not convince me that it was not merely a rote response, but I decided to let it pass for the moment. His physical condition had to come first. He needed to drink water, slowly and lots of it.

Letting him keep hold of my hand, I propped him up against me and reached with my free hand for the pitcher of water. He sipped at the life-giving liquid greedily, desperately, as if becoming only now aware of his burning thirst, and I was hard put to make him swallow the water at a pace that would not strain his system too much.

Finally, he was finished, exhausted, his shirt-front drenched, but his condition less precarious than before.

Time to do my other medical duties. "I shall have to take a look at your leg, Holmes."

Again, he responded with a nod, eyes closed.

I made another attempt to open the hand that had remained curled around mine throughout, telling him that, for this to work, he would now have to let go of me. In truth, there was so little strength in his grip that I should have had no trouble at all freeing myself, but forcing him when he was still so disoriented was not something I wished to do. Besides, I needed to gauge the state of his mind so I could estimate how fast the deuced drug was wearing off.

He looked at his one hand where it still gripped my shirt, then at the other one, curled around my hand, and then back at me with an expression of such naked pleading that it tore at my heart. "I promise that I shall still be here when you let go," I said softly, attempting to guess where his trouble lay. "It's really, truly over. You're safe. I'm here, and here I'll stay. You can let go, Holmes."

His eyes were enormous in his pale face, and the grip of his hands did not loosen. "How can I be certain?" he whispered. "How do I know you will not disappear again?"

So he did understand me, which was a relief. But he was still sufficiently confused, apparently, that reality and drug-induced fancy were one to him, for otherwise he would never have asked such a childish question. How to reassure him? I cast about my mind in search of something that would convince him of my existence outside of whatever visions of me he might have had during the days of his captivity.

And then, moved, perhaps, by the sight of his bloodshot eyes, deathly pallor and general air of fragility, I did something that, even with the benefit of hindsight, I cannot adequately explain. I leaned forward and touched my mouth to his forehead.

As soon as the sensation of his abnormally warm skin against my cooler lips reached my mind, I drew back in shock and mortification. What in Heaven's name had prompted me to do this? Had I taken leave of my senses? Had I snapped under the strain to force my wholly inappropriate impulses onto my helpless friend? A fine way for a doctor to behave!

But one glance at Holmes' face and its expression of near-painful relief told me that, whatever my mind was telling me; I had done exactly the right thing. "It is you, Watson," he whispered, drawing breath with a near sob. "No-one else…. Thank God. Thank God."

Gently, I uncurled the fingers of his one hand, and he followed suit by opening the other fist, his eyes never leaving my face, until at last he lay quietly while I was free to see to the wound in his thigh.

Deliberately pushing everything but my professional knowledge to the back of my mind, I worked as quickly and as gently as I could, first undressing him and covering him in a blanket to preserve his dignity. The inflammation was bad, but had not progressed enough, fortunately, to endanger his leg. With a silent but heartfelt thanks to Lord Lister and his research upon antiseptics, I did what I could to stem the infection, until Holmes, with a sound more a sob than a groan, tried to pull his leg away, and I realised that, once again, the extraction of the bullet must wait until I could safely administer ether or chloroform, which I did not dare do until I could be sure his system was clear of the drug, or at least stable enough to be subjected to more stress.

"How bad is it?" he whispered as I was putting away the bottle of carbolic.

"It'll be fine, Holmes. The bone is not damaged. You'll keep your leg. I shall however have to enlist the help of the local practitioner for the extraction of the bullet. For now, I've done all I can."

"It's hellishly painful."

"I know." I took a breath, bracing myself. There was still this nagging suspicion in my mind, hinging upon nothing more substantial than something my friend had said as he lay in my arms in the dog cart, about his tormentors 'hurting him'. I had always known Holmes to be a man of supreme indifference to physical discomfort, and I could not imagine that the bruises or even the gunshot wound could so disturb him. Therefore, it had to be something else, something more damaging than a mere wound, and my heart grew cold at the direction my thoughts kept taking. "Holmes, I shall have to examine you again, more thoroughly than I could in that gloomy room, make sure I have overlooked nothing."

He closed his eyes. "What is it you fear that you overlooked?"

"Internal injuries," I said slowly, choosing my words with care.

He kept his eyes closed and bit his lip. "I'm all right."

"Holmes."

"Just treat my leg. Everything else is incidental."

"At the risk of incurring your wrath, Holmes, you must allow me to be the judge of that."

"I should really rather not."

I saw no recourse but to be blunt. "Holmes, I know that all you want now is to be left alone, with no-one poking and prodding you even with the best of intentions. You are in pain, weakened from hunger and thirst, and have been through a terrible ordeal. Believe me, I know how you feel."

His eyes opened, blazing fire. "You know nothing," he hissed as sharply as his obviously still numbed tongue would let him. "How could you? My own memories are confused, and I'm not sure if I should remember the thing at all if they hadn't –" He broke off with a gasp.

A fist seemed to clench in my guts. At that moment, I was seized by the intense desire to kill.

He closed his eyes and turned his face away.

"If they hadn't done it more than once," I forced myself to finish softly.

He made a choked sound.

I, too, closed my eyes and fought for composure. "Let me look at you, Holmes. The sooner it's treated, the sooner it will heal."

That sound came again. "Not now."

I hardened my heart. Giving in now would, in the long run, be more damaging to my friend than subjecting him to the perceived indignity now. "Holmes. Be reasonable."

It was the wrong thing to say. His eyes snapped open and fairly blazed at me. "I said not now. Leave me the hell alone, Watson."

My respect and, yes, awe of Sherlock Holmes have always induced me to defer to his wishes on all occasions, from private matters as trivial as letting him decide the placement of our furniture, to vital decisions such as those concerning the disposition of our finances or my assistance in his professional cases. This respect is profound, which may serve as an explanation why I hesitated now when giving in to him would not only reflect badly upon my competence as a medical man but might even endanger his health.

However, hesitate I did, and Holmes used the time to clumsily grab at the blanket that was half covering him and try to pull it up around his head. It was the very childishness of the action that brought me to my senses, reminding me of my own dictum that a patient needs to be treated like a child, and that, here and now, Holmes was my patient, which meant doing whatever was necessary even if it meant ignoring his wishes.

"And how long would you have me wait?" I asked softly. "When will you finally feel comfortable enough to let me do my duty as your physician? Tomorrow? A week from now? Never?"

He was silent.

"If there is damage," I went on, relentlessly but still softly, "it needs to be treated now. The longer I wait, the more complications may occur. You might even die from them. Yes, the examination may be uncomfortable, and embarrassing. It may even be a little painful, especially if there really is damage. But that surely is a good sight better than the needless suffering you would have to endure if I spared you now."

Still he said nothing, keeping his eyes closed, shutting me out.

I opened my mouth to add something, then stopped myself. I had stated my case. Any addition would detract from my own words. Now I would have to leave it to him, place my faith in his logical mind and hope that he would be able to rise above his very understandable misgivings.

Of course, the very fact that he was refusing my help had already confirmed my suspicions, and I was once again grateful to be away from that place and the possibility of doing physical harm to my friend's tormentors. What damage they had done! However should I even begin to heal something like this?

Holmes' quiet voice interrupted my silent fuming. "Be quick, Watson."

I hid my astonishment at this unexpectedly quick submission and did my best to comply. He lay still throughout my ministrations, breathing deeply, face turned away, eyes closed. I surmised that he was trying to detach himself from the proceedings, ignore the indignity to his body by withdrawing into his mind the way I had seen him do so often before.

There was indeed damage. I found myself obliged to practise my own brand of detachment when I realised the full extent of it. This was the result of repeated, brutal violation of a man rendered helpless by drugs, and for what? Surely nothing more than the gratification of their depraved urges. Try as I might, these thoughts kept intruding while I, keeping my hands as steady and my touch as gentle as possible, cleaned the torn tissues, relieved to find the majority of his injuries accessible for suturing.

Meanwhile, Holmes' breathing became more audible, and finally he buried his face in the pillow to muffle the sound of his distress. I hurried my examination to a close, knowing that the worst still lay ahead of him. Having finished, I covered him, thoroughly cleaned my hands and instruments, and put my hand upon his shoulder.

He drew a ragged breath, his face still hidden. "I did not want you to know," he said into the pillow, his voice muffled and so soft that I hardly heard him.

"My dear fellow, this does not change anything, least of all my regard for you," I tried to assure him, finding my words woefully inadequate. During my time as army surgeon, in a war when all rules were off, I had seen men brought low by experiences such as that which had now befallen my poor friend, their self-esteem irrecoverably shattered, many of them driven to drink, or worse, suicide. But what could I do to keep Holmes from this fate? I was not trained to heal the mind, only the body.

Heal the body. That must come first. Everything thing else I would tackle later. I gave his shoulder another reassuring pat and prepared to suture the still bleeding tears.

It was an experience upon which I prefer not to dwell. The knowledge that I was causing pain, always unavoidable during surgery performed without anaesthetics, was quite abhorrent to me now, for I knew that I was bringing back terrible memories by treading a path that my friend's tormentors had so brutally blazed before me.

Once he had resigned himself to the procedure, Holmes applied his formidable will power to holding himself as still as he could, but his ragged breathing and the constant twitching of his muscles eloquently told me of the great pain he was suffering from my ministrations.

Finally I was satisfied that I had done all I could, and I covered my patient and put away my instruments, keeping my hands busy. Holmes continued to lie still, his face buried in the pillow, slender hands fisted into the clothes, exhausted. Something about the gentle slopes and protruding sinews and vertebrae in the back of his neck must have aroused my protective instincts, for I felt an almost physical need to put my arms around him and regain the closeness we had shared almost continuously since I had found him.

Before I could reconsider, my hand was already touching his shoulder - a mistake, for he started violently and moved his shoulder to shake me off. "Leave me alone," he hissed without raising his head.

"Holmes…."

He shifted until he could look at me, trying to pull his long, trembling limbs up to his body with visible effort. His voice, though weak, was imbued with the full strength of his authority. "Let me rephrase, Watson: Leave me the hell alone."

I could see that he was in dead earnest, but my arms were aching with their emptiness, and so I tried one last time. "Please, Holmes. I merely wish to help you."

His eyes closed wearily. "You can do that by going away. Now." There was a tremor to his voice that I had never heard before, and what I could see of his face was a battlefield. The next moment, he had hidden it in his pillow, shoulders up almost to his ears and hands clenched into fists, half curled up upon his side, yet too shattered to find comfort in this position and too weak to even draw his arms and legs up properly.

I watched, indecisive. Should I, once again, impose my presence upon him? Could I even be certain of my own motivation? I had behaved disgracefully once before, after all. In the end, I compromised by helping him achieve the near foetal position he was trying to assume. He glared at me, but, obviously still finding himself too weak to move on his own, he allowed me to gently shift his long limbs until he finally relaxed into the new position, and then I covered him with every blanket I could find, for I understood about the soothing, almost primal effect of having one's body surrounded by warmth and softness.

All the while, I told myself firmly that my own desires were unimportant, and indeed indecent and unwelcome, so I settled myself in the single chair, well away from the sufferer, to grant him at least the illusion of privacy in that little room.

The quiet, however, did not last long. After some ten minutes, Holmes started out of his state of self-enforced relaxation to look around wildly, slumping in relief only when he had spotted me. I was out of my hair and next to him upon the bed before he could bring his numbed tongue and lips to form my name, taking his hands that reached out for me and drawing him close, my arms around him in a secure hold.

He was mumbling something, low and fast, that sounded like "sorry" repeated over and over. I tried to soothe him as best as I could, until finally he was once again resting in my arms, exhausted after this fight for his customary independence while I felt profound relief, and an alarming amount of guilt.

As he slipped back into sleep, I could feel his breath against my neck and his heartbeat against my chest, closer than he had ever been to me, and I found myself hoping, quite reprehensibly, that he would continue to need me for a while longer.

* * *

His rest was quieter than I should have hoped, and I allowed myself the fancy that this was due to my being near him. Periodically, I slipped my fingers against his neck to check his body temperature, and then, in accordance with what I found, I gathered the bedclothes more tightly about him or away from his neck, as he was alternately chilled and overheated. His lids twitched as he sensed the movement close to his face; now and then, his long, thin fingers trembled against me and he sighed in his sleep, causing me to stroke his hair and face in an effort to soothe him.

All the while, my guilt increased, for on some level, I was most certainly enjoying this far too much. I felt as if an unacknowledged, nay unnoticed, need for this closeness had been awoken within me by this chain of events, and even as I did everything my medical experience told me to do to aid Holmes' recovery, I found myself fearing the moment when he would regain his former aloof state where walking arm in arm or an occasional touch of his hand would be all he would allow me.

I felt like a man who had known paradise and would soon be forced to return to his dismal former existence. How, I wondered, was I supposed to give up this blessed intimacy that allowed me to judge the state of his health with all my senses, from feeling the sharp bones pressing against me to smelling the remnants of the drug upon his breath and skin?

If only he would allow me this free access to his person every night! How often had I lain awake in my bed while Holmes was again running himself to the ground during an investigation, wondering whether he had eaten, when he had last slept, how far progressed his state of exhaustion this time, and whether I should see the signs in time to prevent another collapse. How easy it would be to simply hold him in my arms at night to tell by the shiver of his muscles and the twitch of his fingers whether he was still well, or whether my intervention would be needed soon!

But how could I expect him to trust me enough to let me learn him so well? Was it not depraved of me to be longing for another man's closeness in this manner? For if I was brutally honest, there was quite another level of enjoyment buried beneath all my medical rationalisations, one I dared not even contemplate.

So I lay, carefully avoiding this area of my thoughts, until Holmes awoke several hours later with a pressing need.

So attuned was I to him that I was aware of this need as I was aware that his limbs still were too weak, too uncoordinated, to even allow him to sit up. He gazed at me with a resigned expression, but I touched his brow in reassurance before he could speak, helped him to roll over, and placed the chamber pot so he could use it, first watching him for signs of pain and then glad of this proof that his kidneys, at least, had suffered no damage.

"By Jove, Watson," said he when he was lying back again, his dignity once more safe, "I must say I shall be glad to be home again. Soon, Watson."

I smiled. "I know. But I can't transport you back to London while that bullet's still in your leg. If we operate today, you'll need at least two more days to recover, and then we can consider moving you."

He scowled, then nodded. "I confess I don't relish the thought of rattling over a bumpy road just this minute, Watson."

Indeed, there was that drawn and white look about his mouth that made me curse myself for my thoughtlessness. "How bad is it?" I asked softly.

"Pretty bad," he admitted with unaccustomed honesty, which told me that the pain must in fact be nigh intolerable even for his capacity for ignoring discomfort of any kind. "I should really, really appreciate it if you did something about it."

I made a quick decision. If the pain really was as bad as to make him admit to it, then it would place a greater strain upon his system than adding another drug to the mix. That was my rationalisation, and the impact of his red-rimmed, pleading eyes certainly had no part it.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes spent the next two hours in the blessed quietude of morphia-induced rest while I made the arrangements for his surgery with Dr. Fowler, the local doctor. Dr. Fowler turned out to be an eminent country practitioner who immediately agreed to assist me, making no secret of his eagerness to work with a London physician and the learn about the new methods based on Lord Lister's research.

We requisitioned, in true tradition of rugged country practice, the use of the kitchen table, which was carried up to my room by the stable lads, and then we proceeded to turn Holmes' sickroom into an operating theatre. Every instrument and surface that would take a part in the proceedings was subjected to Lister's reagent, and we thoroughly cleaned our hands prior to beginning, much to Dr. Fowler's bemusement. My poor friend was put under with ether (I was holding my breath at this point that his strained system would tolerate the effects of the narcotic, but of course we could not even consider operating without it), and then we began.

The operation went smoothly, the bullet's path being sufficiently distant from all major nerves and blood vessels, close to the bone but not touching it, and it took less than twenty minutes to remove it and to suture the wound. I had not done surgery of this kind since Afghanistan, but skills used on the battlefield have a habit of becoming more ingrained than anything done in a peaceful surgery, so I did not experience even the slightest hesitation during any part of the proceedings.

Holmes was still unconscious when Dr. Fowler left, both awed by the identity of his patient and impressed by the new procedure, and I busied my hands by bringing the room in order, hoping that this might have the same effect upon the chaos in my mind.

It was a vain hope. As it turned out, I lasted about twenty minutes of gazing and worrying, taking Holmes' pulse and removing myself again from his bedstead, telling myself I was doing no good by hovering like that, and drawn back to his side by his fragile, pale appearance before five minutes had passed. Finally, I gave up and soon was back upon the bed, close to my patient who was so obviously more than my patient, counting his heart beats, his breaths, and monitoring his temperature, all through the simple expedient of resting my cheek against the side of his head while he lay senseless in my arms. And the deep peace this closeness brought me stood, once again, in direct opposition to the moral considerations that also plagued me, but this did not keep me from willingly exposing myself to the conflict.

There would be time enough, I told myself, to worry about the consequences when my friend was well again. Most likely, his imperious personality and aversion to sentiment would take care of my unbecoming tendencies anyway, and even if it did not, I expected that the mere sight of his cool grey gaze, once he was back to being fully himself, would accomplish what my self control could not.

It took my friend almost three hours to waken from his artificially induced unconsciousness, but, not surprisingly, he continued to lie listless and kept drifting off to sleep, with intermittent bouts of vomiting. I did what I could to stem the post-ether nausea and replenish the lost liquids, and then I spent some more time hovering and worrying, a torture that was finally interrupted by a knock on the door.

With a surprising surge of anger at the disturbance, I moved away from Holmes far enough for propriety. "Come in."

It was Lestrade. "Sorry to disturb you, Doctor," he whispered, closing the door behind him. "Thought you might like to know that we've caught two of the 'bidders', but then word must have spread. Nobody's turned up for a while. I have my men waiting to receive them, of course, but I think that was it." He cast a glance at Holmes. "How is he?"

"As well as can be expected," I said, distracted by the twitching of my sleeping friend's lids. He was growing restless. "I'll transport him back to Baker Street tomorrow. If even one of these blackguards is still at liberty and in the vicinity, then Holmes isn't safe here."

Lestrade nodded. "My thought exactly. I'll leave a few constables here for protection tonight, Doctor." He looked at Holmes again, that same peculiar look in his eyes he had had when we found my friend. "'S not right," he muttered, then nodded at me by way of good-bye and left the room without elaborating.

As soon as he was gone, I was back upon Holmes' bed, driven by an almost physical need to be as close to him as I could, one hand stroking his fine black hair and the other keeping track of his pulse at his neck, heartened by the fact that, even unconscious, he moved his face into my caresses like a cat seeking the warmth of the sunlight.

It was with trepidation that I noticed that his temperature was rising, in spite of all my efforts to stem the infection, and I experienced a moment of freezing fear. It would not be the first time that I lost a patient even after all medical intervention was done, simply because his body was breaking down under the strain, unable to recover and heal. And Holmes' body had been subjected to so much strain that I could not be certain of my prognosis any longer.

Then his eyes opened, and I froze, wary of his reaction to this closeness between us. But, as it turned out, I need not have worried about being subjected to his criticism, for it was obvious that, at that moment, nothing could have been further from his mind than thoughts of propriety.

His half open eyes held the glassiness of fever. He shifted and moaned, in the loud, unrestrained fashion of a man who is in terrible pain and not sufficiently conscious to control his reaction. The sound made my insides clench. How often had I heard it on the battlefield, and how often had it heralded the demise of another good man!

Shoving these thoughts away with an effort, I gently touched his face and said his name, but it took several such utterances before his bleary eyes finally focused on me, and another endless number of seconds passed before something akin to recognition came into them. "Where does it hurt, Holmes?" I asked him softly, trying to hold his gaze.

But his eyes soon flicked away to stare into space, leaving me wonder for a moment whether he had heard me at all. "Watson," he finally forced out, and his face contorted into a terrible grimace of agony. "Make it stop." His voice was full of hurt, such as I had never before heard in his normally so suave and even tones.

"I will, Holmes, I will, but first you must tell me where it hurts."

He shuddered and moaned. "Everywhere. Everywhere. Please. Make it stop. I can't -" His voice broke on a sound very much like a sob, and, in a desperate effort to preserve his dignity, he turned his contorted face to the side.

I have never considered myself being easily shaken; certainly my experience in action, performing surgery under fire and keeping a clear head while men's lives depended upon me, has led me to believe that my nerves are fairly proof. But I must confess that none of my prior experience could inure me to that cold, shivery feeling of helplessness that I felt now on seeing my poor friend reduced to begging for relief from pain.

And still, I hesitated. It was evident that nothing less than more morphine could even touch this kind of agony, but Holmes' history of using the drug for recreational purposes had left him subjective to becoming addicted again. I had relented once, against my better judgement. A second time would certainly tip the scale.

Holmes moaned wretchedly, trying to roll over so he could bury his face in the pillow, and I almost moaned with him in sympathetic pain. "For heaven's sake, Watson," his muffled voice came, "please do something. I can't stand this. It's too much. Please."

Sick at heart, I shook my head. "I can't give you any more morphine, Holmes, and I think you know why."

He gave a high, shuddering sound that ended in a choked sob. His thin hands fisted themselves into the pillow, the crumpled folds covering his face. For a long moment, he held this position, every sinew of his body taught and trembling, his breaths at once fast and halting. And then - never have I been so startled! - he released all this pent-up energy into one enormous effort that would, under normal circumstances, certainly have shoved me off the bed.

As it was, however, my poor friend was not strong enough, not coordinated enough, to do more than shift me slightly. He fell back, groaning in frustration, and drew a shuddering breath to shout at me, "Then get out of my way, man, so I can get it myself!"

And he would, too, of that I was certain. Everything about Holmes, from his unique, self-created profession to his successes in employing the methods he had developed, was the direct result of his iron will combined with his fierce independence, both of which, while being admirable traits in a man forced to fend for himself, would serve to frustrate the efforts of anyone wanting to share his load. He was not in the habit of accepting help. As long as he could still crawl, he would take care of his own needs, or, alternatively, ignore them if he deemed them not crucial. He had no friends because he had no need of them. He had never let anyone in - with one exception.

For some reason, Holmes had allowed me of all people to share his life. So far, I had been content to tag along and to watch and record his brilliance, but at some point along the way my admiration had evolved into something deeper. Emboldened by this new, sustaining feeling, I was now determined to teach him that friendship was not just about sharing a glass of brandy of an evening, or even of having somebody to talk to. It was about giving and taking, and about not having to fight all fights by oneself.

Besides, I told myself, I could do a much more decent job as a doctor if my patient trusted me to take care of him, and simply gave himself over to me.

All these thoughts flitted through my head as we held this painful tableau - Holmes glaring at me as the obstacle between him and the morphine, and I bent on establishing my position as his medical adviser. "I cannot," I replied to his anguished cry. "Giving you morphine now might kill you. You are running a fever, your system has been much weakened by hunger and thirst, and you are still under the influence of a number or drugs, all of which makes it impossible to estimate a safe amount of morphine to inject. I cannot allow it."

He gave a choked sob. "I absolve you from all responsibility," he forced out. "Now move out of my way."

Leaning forward, I placed both my hands upon his shoulders, holding him down gently but firmly. "No. I could never forgive myself. And you can't absolve me. I'm a doctor, and your friend. You are very ill. You are running a fever, and it's rising. Disavow it though you will, even your mind is affected by something like that. You must accept that you cannot make any informed decisions right now." While I talked, I tried to hold his eyes, but I realised from his unsteady gaze that the rising fever was indeed beginning to interfere with his ability to concentrate upon the here and now.

Abruptly, he abandoned his efforts. His head fell to the side, and his eyes scrunched shut. "It hurts," he whispered, exhausted and defeated. "You said you would make it stop."

I tried to harden my heart to the jolt of pain his barely audible words caused me. "As long as you can feel the pain, at least you are still alive," I retorted, angry at myself for having to put him through this, at the situation and the chain of events that had lead to it, even, and may the Lord forgive me, at my poor friend for proving to be less than superhuman after all. Chagrined, and in a much softer voice, I added, "I can't lose you. I love you too much."

I had not intended for him to hear me, but as soon as the words were out of my mouth, his breath stalled for a second, and he turned his head back to me, staring at me in wonder. "Is this true? You love me?" he asked, with an almost childlike desperation in his voice.

In response, I framed his face with both my hands and stroked my thumbs over his prominent cheekbones. "Depend upon it," I said with all the sincerity I could muster. "I love you with all my heart, and as truly as ever a human being loved another." His eyes lit up in an expression of such aching rapture as I had not thought him capable of assuming, and I responded by briefly touching my lips to his.

When I raised my head and looked into his eyes again, they were filled with moisture, and he was smiling. Chances were he would not remember the kiss or my confession once the fever broke, but hearing it now had certainly distracted him from his agony.

Such was my rationalisation as I held his liquid gaze until his eyes finally drifted shut, tears spilling out of the corner of his eyes and making the hair at his temples glisten. "So... tired..." he muttered. And then his lips formed few more words that I could not make out, and he was blessedly asleep.

* * *

Holmes' sleep, alas, was not a restful one, frequently interrupted whenever the pain in his leg destroyed the protective layers of sleep that might have shielded his awareness from the agony. Sometimes, his own moans woke him up, and on those occasions, it was obvious that he did not know at first where he was, for his gaze always held the most heartbreaking expression of surprise and relief whenever he turned his head to find me by his side.

"I need to know," he whispered urgently at one such time, clinging to my hands like a drowning man, "what part of it was real and what was a dream. Watson, can you tell me? Some of it was so terrible and some of it so wonderful, it can't all of it have happened. Not all of it." His eyes bore into mine pleadingly, but before I either answer his question or could seize my chance to persuade him to tell me what had happened, he looked away again, his confused mind as quick to jump from one idea to the next as ever. "How can you bear to look at me?" he whispered, "let alone touch me? After what they did... all the soap in the world can't cleanse me."

"It does not change who you are, Holmes," I offered.

"No, no, Watson, you cannot have it both ways. If it does not change anything, then the other thing does not either, and that I cannot allow. I did mention there was something wonderful about all of this, didn't I? If it really did happen, that is. If the horror of it makes no difference, then the beauty of it does not either, and then where would I be? But if it does make a difference, then where does that leave me? Defiled, Watson, defiled. And that may well undo all the wonder. Just like in chemistry. A strong acid will cancel out a strong base, and afterwards, all is bland." All of this he uttered in a rapid, distracted whisper. "And so you see that I must know. Tell me, Watson."

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"Did it really happen? I can tell, from an inventory of all the places where I hurt, that the horror really did happen. But the wonder, Watson, the wonder lay in nothing but a few words and a gesture. Words are so transitory. They leave no trace of their passing, save in memory, and that is unreliable. I normally pride myself on my power of recall, as you know, but it seems I'm not at my best right now. Did I dream it? If I did, you won't even know what I'm talking about, so there's no harm in asking. Please, Watson. Tell me."

By now, I had realised at what he was driving. Obviously, despite my hopes that he would not, he had remembered my heart-felt if ill-thought words. Now, in the thrall of his fever and confusion, he called them wonderful. But might he not, later, come to resent me for this blatant sentiment? And even if he did not, what might the consequences be? Would it not be better forgotten, and the status quo maintained?

But I have ever been a man who prefers to face situations rather than stick his head in the sand and pretend nothing is wrong, and even if I were not, I doubt I would have had the heart to disappoint the hope I so plainly saw in his eyes.

I was just about to open my mouth to tell him that my words to him had been no dream, when he again surprised me. "No, Watson, no. I've changed my mind. Don't tell me. Not now, at any rate. I perceive from the circles under your eyes that you have not slept properly in quite a while, and from that I deduce that I am still not well. Therefore, anything you tell me now might not stay in my memory anyway, and leave the same doubts next time I'm awake. Besides, you might tell me the wrong thing. I need all my strength now, and all my illusions. Pray don't shatter them, at least not until I am stronger. After all, it's all so improbable, so impossible. No, no, surely it was a dream. But don't tell me so. Just let me rest, return to the dream. Have you ever wondered, Watson, what happens to the dream-scape when you leave it, and to the people and things in it? Do they stare in wonder at the empty space you just inhabited, having watched you disappear as you woke and returned to reality? Do they then sit around all the while, waiting, suspended like a fly in amber, until you fall asleep again and return to the dream-scape? And isn't it strange how you can tell that you are awake, but never know that you are dreaming? Ah, but I do wish my leg would stop this infernal smarting. It is quite distracting."

His eyes had drifted closed, and his voice was hardly more than a soft muttering by the time he finished this strange speech. I placed my hand upon his forehead and gently stroked one eyebrow, noticing how his features relaxed and some of the tension left his body at the contact. He was silent now, moving his head very slightly into the contact, which was all the thanks I needed.

Holmes had lain like that for some ten minutes and I was just hoping that he had finally drifted off to sleep, his breathing calm and regular and the skin of his brow warm beneath my hand, when the door to my little room opened and Lestrade entered without knocking.

"Sorry, Doctor," he said softly but with underlying urgency, "something is happening outside. I'm afraid I can't guarantee your safety any longer, or Mr. Holmes'. You have to leave immediately. There's a closed carriage outside, and I've wired to the station for a special. But you have to move him now."


	4. Chapter 4

It was not the first time that I had been obliged to move an injured man through enemy lines, a fact that now proved to be fortuitous. I did not lose time devising any cumbrous means of transport, for I knew from experience that, despite all our modern methods of caring for the sick and injured, there was nothing more mobile, flexible, and protective than the age-old expedient of a man carrying another in his arms.

Despite my half-acknowledged expectations, no hail of bullets descended to greet us as I exited onto the road, cradling my poor friend close to me. Instead, a sense of quiet pervaded the rural surroundings of the inn, and despite my intention to remain vigilant, I found myself relaxing slightly. After all, I reasoned, there was always the outside chance that Lestrade might have misinterpreted the situation. The closed carriage was there, a few yards away from me; within moments, surely Holmes would be safe.

I do not know what warned me - possibly a suggestion of movement, caught out of the corner of my eye, from one of the doorways across the road. In any case, suddenly I felt an impulse to turn around to face back to the door to the inn, my back to the potential threat and Holmes shielded by my body. And indeed, there was the report of a gunshot and a thump against my shoulder, all very familiar to me from my time in Afghanistan - I had been hit by a small-calibre weapon.

Before my arm could give out, and even before my brain registered the pain, I had gone down to my knees in a controlled fall lest I drop my precious burden. Holmes groaned as his injured leg hit the ground none-too-gently, and I slipped my newly freed hand into my coat pocket for my revolver.

Lestrade cried a warning; he and two constables moved in on our position to cover us; there was the sound of more gunshots; I tried to twist around to catch sight of our attackers, and then the pain from my wound finally and devastatingly registered. For a moment, my senses swam and there was a roaring in my ears; I blinked furiously, trying to see something, anything, my nearly numb fingers cramped in a death grip about my revolver, ready to shoot. Holmes shouted my name, and as my vision returned, I found myself lying on the ground and his hand was wrestling my revolver from my grasp.

Then he had it, and the shots fired close to my ears were deafening as he kept squeezing the trigger. To this day, I have no idea where he found the strength to aim nor how he managed to see where he was shooting; for not only was the smoke from the gunpowder obstructing our view in the still morning air, but also I was certain that he must still be feeling the disorienting effects from the cocktail of drugs he had been given.

Dropping the spent gun, he levered himself up upon one arm, his free hand reaching for me. It was covered in blood, and I feared that he had been wounded again. It was only later that I realized that the blood upon his hand was mine. Then his eyes found mine; there was an expression of such intense relief in his that I wondered, for a confused minute, what it was I had missed. The next moment, his wiry arms hooked themselves under my shoulders, and, amazingly, he levered himself to his feet and me along with him, and then we stumbled together towards the safety of the carriage, where our impromptu coachman was having his hands full calming the horses.

I had just reached the door and was turning to help Holmes up, when he, suddenly and with a strangled groan, became a dead weight – the pain of walking on his injury had become too much even for his iron self control. Gritting my teeth against the searing pain in my shoulder, I held him up as best as I could and half dragged, half pushed him into the carriage while all around us, constables were shouting at each other and the occasional gun shot ricocheted off the walls.

Then the carriage was moving, jerking and shaking along the uneven road, leaving me to secure my unconscious friend by holding him with my good arm while keeping my head underneath the windows until we were out of the danger zone. It was some time before I was able to relax, as it seemed from what I could see through the small back window of the carriage that there was no sign of pursuit.

Carefully, I twisted and moved my injured shoulder, relieved to find that the damage seemed to be purely superficial, if deucedly painful when moved; sufficiently so to surprise a groan out of me.

Holmes chose that moment to return to consciousness. "Watson," he gasped, looking around confusedly for a second before focusing on me. "Watson." Beyond this repetition of my name, he said nothing more, and merely continued to look at me, the same wondrous relief in his eyes I had seen before.

"Holmes," I said, "how are you feeling? Are you in pain?"

He shook his head, not so much, I felt, in response to my question as in denial of the entire topic. I saw his eyes flick to the side, and his expression changed. Raising his bloodied hands, he pointed at my shoulder. "Watson, you're bleeding."

"I know. It's only superficial."

He continued to look at the blood-soaked material of my coat, blinking slowly, his face assuming an expression that I had never seen before. "They hurt you." The words were not so much whispered as hissed. "I'm going to - ugh." He had twisted his body around as if trying to get upright, but was obviously dissuaded from fully sitting up by the pain from his wound.

And then, to my surprise, he smacked his fist into the upholstery in a violent discharge of rage and hate. "They hurt you!" he hissed. "Stop the carriage! Nobody hurts my Watson with impunity. I shall tear them apart..." He trailed off with a strangled gasp and panted, groaning.

I blinked with a sudden upsurge of emotion at this evidence of Holmes' regard for me. While I had long suspected that he harboured a fierce temper underneath his habitually detached manner, it was nevertheless startling to find that his capacity for cold, logical reasoning could be distorted like this.

"I'm fine, Holmes," I tried to assure him, disconcerted by this new side of him. "The police have them. We're going home."

He nodded. "Home. Good. Do not let me get near them. I won't be responsible for my actions." His eyes were closed; there was a fine sheen of sweat upon his brow, and I could tell that his temperature was still elevated. "Not responsible. These men are capable of anything. Anything, Watson." He trailed off.

I felt that this was an opportunity that I could not let pass un-seized. If ever Holmes were to be persuaded to talk about his ordeal, it would be now, when he was not yet sufficiently resettled in his mind to hide behind his façade of impassibility – and now I knew with certainty that it was but a façade.

"You're angry at what they did," I probed, feeling my way cautiously.

His eyes were still closed. "Damned right I'm angry. They hurt you." Despite his clipped words, his voice held a dreamy quality that told me he was not fully conscious.

"They did things to you as well, Holmes," I ventured. "How does that make you feel?"

"I don't wish to think about that," he told me, still with a distinct vehemence underneath the dreaminess.

This obviously required a tactical approach, and a speedy one. Once Holmes recovered his equilibrium sufficiently to return to his taciturn self, I should never get him to unburden himself, and I have ever believed that wounds of the soul must be treated like any other wound – lanced and cleaned swiftly lest they later begin to fester.

"I am angry at what they did to you," I told him softly, taking his hand. "I've been worried sick. You were gone for a whole week, and I had no word, nothing. Then we found you in such a sorry state, and when I realized what happened to you, I swear I should have forgotten myself at the slightest provocation."

He looked at me, then to the side, but he said nothing.

"So you see, I understand that you are angry. I, too, am very angry, because I know what they did to you."

His gaze flicked back to me. "You know? You do." And so did he, clearly, for his face paled considerably as he remembered. Then he looked at his hand in mine, and his mouth tightened.

"I believe you're disgusted," I hazarded, "and you think that I should be, too." After all, he had said something to that effect before, in his delirium.

"I don't understand how you can stand to touch me," he confirmed, his voice brittle.

"You feel dirty."

"I shall never feel clean again."

"You were bound, gagged. Subjected to their whims. They drugged you into complete helplessness. And then they – hurt you."

He closed his eyes and turned his head away. "Please, stop."

I hardened my heart. As painful as it is to lance the boil, as great is the relief when the poison finally exits the wound. "You had no idea what was real and what was not. You had no way to fight them, to prevent what they did to you. All you could do was live through it."

He was breathing rapidly, his lips trembling. "Watson, please." But still, in spite of his weakened system, in spite of the fever, his composure held.

This man was much too strong to break with cruelty, but I had another weapon at my disposal. "It kills me to think of it, Holmes," I said intently, tightening my hold about him. "To think of you in that position. The man I love, at the mercy of these… beasts." I fear that my own voice was none too steady. In trying to affect him, I was driving a figurative knife into my own breast.

Then I stroked my hand over his head, down his back, and finally lowered my mouth to kiss him.

He broke, and shattered, and I was there to gather the pieces in my hands.

* * *

The journey back to Baker Street was an experience upon which I should much prefer not to dwell. Quite apart from the exertions of the journey itself, exertions that required me to carry my injured friend to and from to train, the cab, and finally into our lodgings, there was Holmes' brittle self-control that, once broken, could not be subjected to the slightest strain. He would hide his face against my body as often and as much as he could, or he would place his arm across his eyes when I was too far away. His breathing was audible and much too fast, and the thin sheen of sweat that indicated his fevered state was still evident upon his too-pale face.

Finally, we reached our lodgings, and when I had finished bringing my friend into his bed, I myself felt quite ready to drop where I stood. However, there was not yet time to rest. My own wound required cleaning and dressing. I needed to make arrangements for the care of Holmes – a night nurse for the next few nights at least, and a full restocking of my medical supplies. Mrs Hudson needed to be informed. All these thoughts crossed through my mind, but I could not get myself to move for a long time.

Holmes was lying upon his side, face hidden in the bedclothes, arms wrapped around himself as if trying to receive comfort from his own touch. I stared at him from maybe a yard away, remembering how he had clung to me, and the distance between us felt unbearable. He needed me. He was still so brittle.

But those were fanciful thoughts unbecoming of a professional, so I made myself leave his bedroom and went for my desk and the telegram forms upon it. I left the door open, I assured myself, so Holmes would be able to hear me, and I him. It would have to be enough.

I wrote three telegrams in rapid succession and had just removed my damaged shirt and waistcoat when there was a knock upon our door.

Mrs. Hudson entered. She truly is a most remarkable woman – and inured against shock through constant exposure, it is true -, so she merely blinked as she saw my half-naked and bloodied person. "Oh doctor," she said, for all the world as if I were a particularly wayward child, "what have you done and got yourself into again? Have you found –"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I found Holmes. He will be fine."

She smiled in evident relief, but then the smile left her face. "'Will be...'? So he is... ? Is there anything I can do, doctor? And if you don't mind my saying so, you look absolutely done in yourself. If I knew it would do any good at all, I should tell you to get some rest before you drop."

I gave her a staunch smile, touched by her concern, yet quite unwilling to abandon my post. "It looks worse than it is, Mrs. Hudson," I said, gesturing at the blood on my shoulder. "But I would appreciate some hot water, and a sandwich or two, if you would. Oh, and please see that these get sent." I handed her the telegrams.

"But of course." She looked about to add more, but then she merely gave me a brisk nod and left our sitting-room.

I leaned back in my desk chair, my eyes fixed upon the door to Holmes' bedroom and the darkened room beyond. The need to be back with my friend was almost physical, and so I hurried to tend to my injury, making thorough use of the hot water Mrs. Hudson brought up presently, and closing the flesh wound with three stitches applied with my left hand with the aid of a mirror held in my right while most of my attention was in the next room, listening to any sound Holmes might make.

But I heard nothing. Paradoxically, this did not reassure me, and so, as soon as I was done, I hurried back to my friend's side, only to find him in the same position as I had left him, deeply asleep. I felt weak with relief, the physician in me reassured at this sign of beginning recuperation, even as another part of me stung with something akin to disappointment. No trembling hands reaching for me; no more need for my arms around him.

Appalled at this evidence of my own selfishness, I retreated into the sitting-room, telling myself fiercely that I should be glad of my friend's improvement and ashamed of myself. He was my patient, and I was dangerously close to abusing his state of helplessness for my own needs. Was I not aware of Holmes' habitual aversion to all things emotional? No matter the insights I might have gained, was it not my duty as his friend to respect his preferences and not impose my own wishes upon him, now that he was so needy for reasons beyond his control? Did I not know how much his own behaviour now would distress him later, when he was well again, and how reprehensible it was of me to encourage said behaviour?

Such were my thoughts as I sat upon my customary chair by the unlit fire, and I could only find peace upon the resolution to curb my impulses from now on, leave my friend his space, let him retreat back into his shell, and allow things to continue as they had before.

* * *

I must have fallen asleep, for it was hours later when Holmes' voice caused me to come awake with a start.

"Watson?"

My neck straightened with a painful crackle. "I'm here, Holmes." Levering myself to my feet, I found my mouth dry, my shoulder sore, my arms stiff from past exertions, and my legs still weak with exhaustion. Obviously, carrying my friend to and fro on top of all the excitement of the past week had left its mark upon my body.

And so, my entrance into his chamber was less than graceful. He peered at me out of hooded eyes, taking in my appearance and giving a strange little half smile. "There you are," he said softly. "I thought that maybe you'd gone out." His voice was almost without inflection.

I shook my head, attempting to make sense of his manner. This was a marked change from the desperate, near hysterical man I had held in my arms on the way here. He appeared lucid, in full possession of his faculties, and wary.

Once again, I was stabbed by the most acute sense of disappointment, and I smiled to cover it. "You are looking much better, my dear fellow," I said. He needed the doctor more now than the friend, and had I not resolved to give him what he needed, and not what I wanted him to need?

Still that wary look. "Much better," he confirmed. "You, on the other hand..."

I rubbed my neck. "Fell asleep in my chair," I muttered, shrugging in what I felt was a good approximation of indifference. "Mrs. Hudson brought up sandwiches. You should try to eat a bite. And I should have a look at that leg of yours."

There was a pause. Holmes' eyes fairly bored into mine, and it was all I could do to return his gaze. Would he, who so rarely missed anything, be able to see through my pretence, or would he know about my inappropriate desires just from looking at me? I called upon the full extent of my dissembling abilities and attempted to affect complete nonchalance.

Finally, he looked away and closed his eyes. "In a minute, Watson," he said, suddenly appearing frail and tired. "Surely there's no hurry, now that the crisis is over."

I took a deep breath, not knowing how I felt. I should be happy that things were returning to normal, but my being was suffused with conflict. "I shall let you rest," I said, turning to go, and telling myself that this was what I wanted.

After all, I had known heaven of a sort, if only for a few hours. That was more than most men ever did. It would have to be enough.

When evening came, Holmes proceeded to provide further proof of his amazing recuperative powers by first dismissing the night nurse I had taken some trouble to find for him, and then by moving to the dinner table under his own power and even eating a bite or two without too much prompting. By then, all trace of the drugs had dissipated completely, and my friend once again appeared fully alert and in complete possession of his faculties.

As for myself, I had spent the day in much the same way as the hours before it, but by now, I had come to accept the fact that recent events had woken a need within me that would not soon die, and that instead I would have to live with for as long as I shared the life and friendship of Sherlock Holmes. For now, this need was inchoate, undefined even before my own scrutiny, for I dared not look at it too closely lest it turn me into something I should hardly be able to accept.

Not even Lestrade's triumphant wire letting me know that Scotland Yard had been successful in finding the miscreants and apprehending all the bidders associated with the whole sordid business had been sufficient to distract me from my thoughts.

Dinner was a silent affair, with both of us, I think, lost in our own thoughts, the way soldiers are that have nearly died in a battle. Now and then, I sensed Holmes' gaze upon me, and more often than not, I could feel my face heat up in response. For myself, I kept my own gaze upon Mrs. Hudson's excellent roast, for if I looked my friend in the eye, surely he would be able to surmise my thoughts and know me for the deviant I was barely acknowledging myself to be.

In a moment of inspiration, similarly to a bolt of lightning in the night that will light up the darkest road, I saw my life stretch on like this – myself forever unable to meet Holmes' gaze, and him forever striving to penetrate my silence. This would be intolerable. I needed to gather my resolve and end this now.

Of course, he chose that moment to act. "Watson." The sole mention of my name drew my eyes up to his at once. To my surprise, they were not the eyes of the dispassionate detective I had expected. Instead, I fancied seeing in them a glimmer of some unnamed turmoil.

I at once looked him over – his leg elevated properly, clean bandages unchanged from my treatment an hour ago; his skin not quite his usual pallor, but neither feverish, and quite dry; his hands steady as he held his knife and fork – in short, I could see nothing physically wrong with him. "Holmes?"

For a minute or more, he did not reply and merely looked at me with that same expression in his eyes. "Did I dream it?" he finally asked, then apparently realized that I could not possibly answer that question. "I do not meant what happened when I got this -" he pointed at his leg, "and you, that." A long, thin finger pointed at my shoulder. "Everything be something of a blur, but I do know that none of it was a dream. But I did have dreams while these things happened, and you featured heavily in most of them."

He paused, and I nodded. "I know." _Be real this time_ , he had said to me when I found him. The memory still had the power to make my soul ache.

"I remember you saying something to me, something monumental," he went on, breaking eye contact to look down at his hands that were still holding the cutlery. He put it down and steepled his fingers in front of him in a gesture that was reassuringly Holmesian. "And then doing something even more monumental. So monumental, in fact, that I can scarcely conceive that it was no dream."

I found myself holding my breath in hope. If he remembered my heartfelt if foolish words and still had not thrown me out of our lodgings, then possibly my situation was not quite as hopeless as I had thought. "I said a lot of things," I said, the sudden surge of heart making me reckless. "I should not have thought that you would term them 'monumental', though. 'Sentimental', possibly."

At that, he looked up once more, his eyes shining. "Certainly sentimental," he agreed thoughtfully, as if discoursing upon some academic topic. "Words such as 'foolish' and even 'dangerous' come to mind as well. And what you did after you said it might even be termed 'criminal'. Provided, of course, that none of it was a dream."

"Oh, it was no dream," I said, grinning like a loon, completely reassured by his manner. "And I have never been afraid to break the law in a good cause."

He leaned back in his chair and regarded me with a slight smile, the first truly glad expression I had seen from him since I had found him. "As I very well know, my dear Watson," he said softly. "But that bears the question: Is what we are not quite discussing a good cause? For myself, I have only the barest theoretical knowledge of the thing, save as a motivation for crime. I never would have fancied myself as an active participant, so to speak. But, like you have followed me everywhere, I am ready to follow you in this." He smiled more widely at my no doubt dumbfounded expression. "And now cease your worrying, Watson. If you can still call me friend after what happened to me, then I can most certainly hold you in the same regard as I did before you said those words and did that deed."

* * *

Not much remains to tell, now, in order to conclude this rambling narrative. That night, Holmes and I shared a bed for the first time for purposes other than practical ones, with both of us reasonably sound and in full possession of our faculties. I should like to be able to report that our first coming together thus was athletic and physically glorious, but the truth is that I was much too wary due to my friend's injuries, and Holmes still much too weak and tired from his ordeal for anything more than sharing body warmth and some extended caresses.

And yet, even that mere promise of things to come, that mere holding and being held by the one I loved, was much more satisfying, for me at least, than the stolen affection I had so gloried in before could ever be. I still feel guilty whenever I remember my unprofessional behaviour during Holmes' rescue – never more so than when Holmes, during his more demonstrative moments, calls me his moral anchor, or north star, or whatever else flattering simile he may think up.

Be that as it may, we are now committed to this course, wherever it may lead us. As I am writing this in the early morning hours, Holmes is lying deeply asleep next to me, and I exult in the knowledge that, once I have finished this last sentence and closed my little note-book, I shall be free to rejoin him under the covers and hold him to my heart's content, knowing that this is where we, both of us, want to be.


End file.
